


the tragic tale of a bard, most cruelly spurned-! (Hmm)

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cats, Don't Post To Another Site, Fluff, Gen, Goats, Humour, Misunderstandings, Swearing, gen - Freeform, one (1) tired sorceress, one might say the grad student of sorceresses, or pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: It starts with the cat. Now, Geralt would never, ever say anything- because he’s a big scary Witcher who doesn’t need any love or comfort or appreciation in his life, blah, blah, blah- but Jaskier knows how much it pains him whenever he goes to pet a cat and they flee from him. Backs arched, hissing their disdain, fangs bared in warning.So when the kitten- fur a dirty grey with bright yellow eyes and a dark patch over one eye- comes crawling up to Geralt with its demanding mewls and climbs up the Witcher’s body to rest on his shoulder, it’s all that Jaskier can do not to burst out crying at the sight. Not just because of the cute cat- though that does help- but because of the way that Geralt’s eyes softens, the soft half-smile that Jaskier isn’t even sure that Geralt knows he’s making.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 147





	the tragic tale of a bard, most cruelly spurned-! (Hmm)

**Author's Note:**

> In the spirit of the Shire, please take this offering of fluff as a birthday present in the hopes that it helps provide a moment of pleasure.

It starts with the cat. Now, Geralt would never, ever say anything- because he’s a big scary Witcher who doesn’t need any love or comfort or appreciation in his life, blah, blah, blah- but Jaskier knows how much it pains him whenever he goes to pet a cat and they flee from him. Backs arched, hissing their disdain, fangs bared in warning.

So when the kitten- fur a dirty grey with bright yellow eyes and a dark patch over one eye- comes crawling up to Geralt with its demanding mewls and climbs up the Witcher’s body to rest on his shoulder, it’s all that Jaskier can do not to burst out crying at the sight. Not just because of the cute cat- though that does help- but because of the way that Geralt’s eyes softens, the soft half-smile that Jaskier isn’t even sure that Geralt knows he’s making.

Slowly, trying not to draw any attention, Jaskier reaches out to the side to pick up his lute-

“Don’t you dare, Jaskier,” Geralt growls at him, head swinging around to glare at him. The fearsome scowl is only slightly undercut by the thunderous purring of his new feline friend.

“But Geralt-” Jaskier starts, fingers itching to start composing-

“No.”

#

It really starts two days before, with Geralt prone and defenceless, both swords knocked out of his grasp by the annoyingly competent sorceress of the week.

Jaskier’s there- of course he’s there, where else would he go?- but he’s not being ‘useful’. There’s nothing he can do, not against a powerful mage who has just taken Geralt out with the practised ease of Valdo Marx flicking a piece of snot from his nose (only one of the many reasons Jaskier despises the man).

Anyway, Geralt had told him to ‘stay by Roach and don’t get in trouble’- hah! As if he’s the one who gets in the most trouble! No, what usually happens is that Geralt growls at him to sit down and shut up, and then swans off with his (very impressive) swords to get poked and punched and clawed at. Half the time he doesn’t even make it back! Well… a third of the time. A sixth of the time. Ok, once, but in Jaskier’s defence it was very traumatising! He shudders just thinking about it; the sight of Geralt slumped over the wyvern’s body, leg twisted underneath him at an unnatural angle… There had been bone poking out of it, _bone_! Geralt’s lucky that Jaskier hadn’t thrown up at the sight of it.

Since then, Jaskier has made a show of agreeing to his Witcher’s ridiculous requests, waited thirty minutes or so, and then grabbed a small medical kit (mainly composed of potions), his lute, and his notebook. It’s win win! Either he gets new material, or he makes sure that his idiot isn’t too badly injured. Sometimes he gets to do both at once, and the resulting songs truly are some of his best work, though not ones that he tends to sing while actively travelling with Geralt. Geralt has even stopped lecturing him, recently. Probably because he’s realised that it’s no use because there’s no way that Jaskier is going to stop.

He had been sitting on a hill a few meters away, watching the confrontation and idly trying to come up with a rhythm for ‘witch’ that hadn’t been massively overdone (and one that he would reserve for Yennefer) when he’d seen the attack. And now… well, here he is. Stumbling over his own two feet as he tries to simultaneously run over _and_ pick up a few stones from the ground. It’s not going to actually _do_ anything against a mage of any calibre- well unless Aretuza is also prone to the rampant nepotism that so characterises Oxenfurt- but if he times it right, he could possibly provide a distraction for Geralt. 

“Can you just leave me be?” the sorceress demands, swinging to face him. There are dark bags under her eyes- something that Yennefer would not be seen dead with- and her hands are trembling. Not that that stops her from sending another blast of magic at Geralt when, taking advantage of her split attention, he tries to rise to his feet. 

“Hey!” Jaskier says, skidding to a halt a few metres away. “We’re not the ones going around and stealing babies!”

The sorceress stares at them. “ _What?_ ” she says, her voice rising in pitch. “You’re attacking me- the day before my thesis defence!- because I need a few goats for the practical components? What the fuck!”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says. “But, er, it sounds like you said goats there? I mean-” he makes an awkward gesture with his hand, trying to mimic a goat’s horns, “-like the baa baa kind of goat? Wait, is that the sound a goat makes? It might be sheep that baa-”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt growls, somehow managing to sound long-suffering despite his current, extremely vulnerable, position.

“Bleat! That’s it, goats bleat. Bit embarrassing that, not remembering what sound a goat makes when it’s part of one of my most famous songs… Perhaps you’ve heard it?” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “ _When a humble bard-”_

The sorceress stares at him blankly through four verses and a chorus- Jaskier taking especial care to emphasise the ‘bleat’- before turning around to give that same, dead-eyed stare to Geralt.

“Is he serious?” she asks, which hello, rude! Talking about someone as though he’s not there. But Jaskier is a kind and magnanimous person, ask anyone (apart from fucking Valdo Marx), so he graciously forgives her.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Geralt growls. “It’s a near certainty that he was dropped on his head as a babe-”

“-hey!”

“-but ignore the bard, he isn’t important.” Ignoring Jaskier’s spluttering protests, the Witcher manages to lever himself to an upright position, the sorceress’ magic faltering faced with their mutual bemusement.

“What is important,” Geralt says, “is that the villages told me that you had demanded tribute. Human tribute. In the form of their children.”

“What? No! Who would even- No! That’s disgusting! I don’t even like children!”

“Really not helping your case there,” Jaskier says, but is once again ignored. Really, if they keep up like this, he’s going to think that they don’t want him around! He huffs and- as the situation looks well and thoroughly deescalated- drops his rocks and starts to sulkily strum his lute.

“Then what would give the villagers that impression?”

“I don’t know!” the sorceress wails. Now that she isn’t throwing powerful magic around, she looks incredibly young. The unhealthy pallor of her skin and the renewed trembling of her hands don’t help that impression, though for all Jaskier knows she could be older than the kingdom of Redania. He doubts it though. There’s something about the prominent ink-stains all over her hands and one of her cheeks that just screams ‘stressed student’.

“I just came to the village for a sabbatical while I was preparing my final defence- I need to present it to the Rectoress tomorrow and Oxenfurt is being a _dick_ about supplying the reference texts I need- and I just asked the innkeeper to get me some sick goats so that I could practise the spells. I’m studying disease spreading in farm animals, and it’s really not the same if you don’t have a demonstration- you see, I believe that if you treat the young early on, then they remain immune to the disease their entire life-”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, the strings of his lute _twanging_ as he leaps up and points at the sorceress. “You’re saying that you asked for baby goats?”

“Yes?”

“In other words-” he pauses for dramatic effect, “-you asked for _kids_?”

There’s an unimpressed silence.

“…what sort of idiot,” the sorceress says, “would hear me asking for sick kids and immediately jump to human sacrifice?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You really haven’t been out of Aretuza long, have you?” he says. “Too busy working in that school of yours! My dear, you have experienced one of the most important life lessons you will ever receive: people can _always_ be that stupid.”

“The bard is right,” Geralt says, getting to his feet and yanking his swords out from the tree that they’re embedded in. Jaskier, watching the casual power in that one fluid movement, fans himself. “People are dumb as fuck. And I’ll be telling them that when I return to the village to inform them that their child-eating witch is nothing more than a figment of their overactive imagination.” He pauses. “I doubt I’ll be able to get you the goats though,” he says awkwardly.

The sorceress groans, rubbing her eyes. “It’s fine,” she says shortly, in a tone that very much indicated that it is not fine at all, “I’ll just have to make do.”

Geralt nods at her, and then turns to go, Jaskier hurrying to catch up with him.

“Wait!”

Jaskier sighs. Of course this isn’t the end. It couldn’t be that easy-

“What can I do to repay you?” the sorceress says.

“Nothing,” Geralt says. “Just- don’t get in trouble. I don’t want to have to go after you.”

“There must be something-”

“Nope, he’s disgusting stubborn and self-sacrificing like that!” Jaskier says. “That big, stoic, Witchery façade that hides the softest centre you ever have seen- why, I swear that I heard him cry because cats avoid him, and all that he longs for in life is to pet their sweet little ears-”

“That’s enough, Jaskier!” Geralt snarls, grabbing him (gently) by the collar and marching him away. With a bit of judicious wriggling, Jaskier manages to turn around and give a jaunty wave of farewell to the sorceress.

#

It starts with the cat. The first kitten- Patch, because while someone has poetic talent in this partnership, it’s certainly not Geralt- is only the beginning. She claims Geralt’s shoulder as her due, sitting straight and proud as she surveys her subjects from its lofty heights.

Geralt grumbles, but Jaskier has _seen_ him, smiling and petting the little terror around the campfire. He’s fairly certain that he even heard the Witcher _join in_ the nightly purring storm. He doesn’t blame him- Patch’s fur looks remarkably soft. Not that Jaskier has been able to verify that assertation- whenever he goes near Patch, she fluffs up to twice her size and bares her claws at him. He’s amassing a nice collection of scratches, just from her.

She’s an ungrateful little so and so, especially since he was the one who arranged all her food that first day, before Geralt stopped pretending not to be absolutely smitten by her.

No matter; no man can win all hearts, no matter how hard he tries.

Jaskier accepts that.

Eventually.

A completely mangled hand later.

Ok, maybe he doesn’t accept it, and maybe Geralt is taking far too much pleasure in his distress that Patch absolutely _hates_ him.

Still, he grits his teeth and accepts it. Despite the occasional ‘present’ that is left in his bag (completely ruining his performing clothes, _Geralt_ ), the ever-present threat of injury, the fine and almost impossible to get rid of fur that’s sprinkled across all their belongings, the allergy that he’s _sure_ he’s developing. Because he’s never seen Geralt so soft and open before. And he’s determined to keep that look on his Witcher’s face for as long as possible.

(The next cat that runs up to Geralt- drawn to him as if he were smothered in catnip- Jaskier pre-emptively claims. He calls her Yennefer. Increasing number of scratches be damned (because neither of the cats like him!); it’ll all be worth it when they next meet kitty Yennefer’s namesake. He’s looking forward to seeing how _she_ deals with cat fur all over her dresses).

**Author's Note:**

> The line from 'Toss a coin to your Witcher' that Jaskier is referencing is from the end of the fourth verse:
> 
> While the devil's horns  
> Minced our tender meat  
> And so cried the Witcher  
>  _ **He can't be bleat**_
> 
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


End file.
